


lacuna

by RiddleMeDucc



Series: Earth-140 [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:54:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23926474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiddleMeDucc/pseuds/RiddleMeDucc
Summary: lacuna (n.) /ləˈkjuːnə/"an unfilled space, gap, or missing portion, particularly of a book or manuscript"A collection of short pieces and drabbles set in my personal Batman universe, Earth-140. Some are "canon", some aren't, and some definitely could be. Still taking requests on Tumblr!
Relationships: Edward Nygma/Maria Mason, Edward Nygma/Original Character(s), Edward Nygma/Original Female Character(s), Jonathan Crane/Edward Nygma, Jonathan Crane/Edward Nygma/Original Character(s)
Series: Earth-140 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1724743
Kudos: 23





	1. don't be punreasonable (scriddler)

Jonathan Crane has a headache.

Two headaches, actually. One is throbbing dully in his brain, weighing down his skull like a brick of lead, and is making him wish he’d never got out of bed today.

The other headache is named Edward.

The green-clad _irritation_ has been buzzing about the room like a hyperactive wasp for the better part of an hour. He’s been twittering away to himself the entire time, holding up a conversation on his own, and on a better day, Jon would probably be appreciating it. Not today. In no less than precisely thirty-eight minutes, Edward Nygma has picked up a book, put it back, found another, put it back, trawled through various months-old magazines, scrolled through the notifications on two different phones, and finally settled upon _settling upon him._

Lolling into a heap, to be more specific - he forces himself into Jon's personal bubble like a needy cat, just like always. He fidgets and frowns and glares none-too-subtly at his partner, all in vain. At last, Edward gives a rather loud huff, like the sighing equivalent of a stage whisper, demanding to be heard without stooping to the indignity of _asking._

"Didn't know I'd been demoted t' _pillow._ "

All at once, the redhead lights up like Christmas morning, fixing vibrant eyes up from Jon's lap. "That would require you to have been _promoted_ first, Jon." he snaps back, but it's playful and bright, the words having no real teeth. "As far as I'm concerned, you've always been part of the furniture."

If he didn’t already have a headache, he might have taken it as a compliment.

"Glad to hear it."

And back to his work he goes. He’s been working on a hand-stitch for a while, fixing tears in his outfit, sewing up rips made by the Bat. The movement is quite relaxing, in a way - a sort of dance, a sway back and forth, rhythmic, repetitive. Something easy to get lost in. Hypnotic.

_"I have an eye but I cannot see. I can draw blood yet breathe new life. What am I?"_

Alas, it is not hypnotic for Edward.

"A needle." Jon answers, lowly, and resists looking down at Edward. He can already see that smile in his peripheral vision, the joy it brings when an answer’s right. It’d warm an icy heart on any other day than this. "Ain’t you got something better to do?"

"Well, I’m rather comfortable, you see. I hardly see the _point_ of getting up."

_Oh, no._

Raising a brow, Jonathan hazards a glance, and there it is - there it is. One insufferably smug grin, on insufferably smug lips, on an insufferably smug face.

"Don’t you _dare_."

"Dare what?" comes the challenge in turn, his voice in a lilt of _innocence_ , settling hands behind his head like he hasn’t a care. "You’ll have to explain. Be _blunt,_ perhaps. Or aren’t you feeling very _sharp_ today, darling?"

Jon gives no resistance to the urge to roll his eyes, and he sighs as they gesture skyward.

"Oh, do give me a hint. I can’t quite _pin_ it down. I _needle_ the help I can get."

God give him strength.

"Edward, if you make _one_ more _stupid_ pun, I am _going_ to stab you."

In the face of a mortal threat, Eddie breaks into a _laugh._ He laughs and laughs and laughs, giggles like a child until his body curls and his breaths grow hoarse, and he grins with pure _mischief_ as that needle looms dangerously over him.

Oh, he can’t resist.

_"Maybe I’ll need stitches…!"_

* * *


	2. distractible (scriddler)

Usually, Edward would be rather flattered by staring. Well, actually, _flattered_ wouldn’t always be the correct word - more like _expecting,_ or _enjoying_ , or _basking in_ such focused attention - but this sort of attention isn’t the kind he’d prefer.

These handcuffs are rather uncomfortable.

For all intents and purposes, he doesn’t feel exactly _threatened._ A threat is most potent when it’s inescapable, after all, and this is very much _not_ inescapable. He knows twenty different ways to wriggle out of bonds like these, especially old police cuffs like these ones. But what he _does_ feel is fractured bones, dull, thudding bruises, and the ticklish sensation of blood running from his nose. He’s been unable to quite sit still in this chair, but it’s mainly out of the desperation to _move_ , to wipe the annoying itch away again.

His captor is probably taking it for _fear._

He smells the smoke before he sees the glow, and sees the glow long before a face emerges from the darkness, eyeing him down like a vulture circling roadkill. Ooooh, _scary._ Rosso always was one for a bit of theatrics - Edward could hardly choose to work with him otherwise - but he’d not appreciated his vision, his _brand_ , and so he’d taken a six-figure _consultancy fee_ instead. All in the contract, of course. Rosso here didn’t seem to agree with it.

He stays absolutely silent, save for a long drag on a fancy cigar, and blows the disgusting cloud right into Edward’s face.

Ah. _Dramatic Mob Boss Intimidation, 101._

“You’ve been a thorn in my fuckin’ side for too long, Nygma.” he murmurs, lowly. “Looks like my boys really did a number on you.”

Too bad he clearly hasn’t been to _102._ He’s about as intimidating as Cobblepot in pyjamas, maybe even less, lacking that inimitable air of sophistication - this is just a man in a dingy warehouse on the docks. Edward finds his gaze roaming, glancing up to the window near the ceiling, watching as a pigeon settles into its nest.

“What _are_ you looking at?“

Oh. Oh, right. The hostage situation. The one where he is the hostage.

“Oh, nothing much.” he replies, shrugging, trying to worm the bulk of his hand out from the cuffs. He’s not exactly subtle about it. He winces when pain lances up his arm - okay, broken wrist, got it - and gives in, looking back at Rosso with a frown. “To be perfectly honest, I was waiting for you actually do something.”

He hears a click, and feels something dark pressing under his chin.

“Is this _enough_ for you, rat?”

“Oooh, a _Sig Sauer_.” Edward snorts. “Fancy name, to be sure, but not exactly packing a _lot,_ is it?” he grins, even as the boss presses harder at his chin. “I think it’s very brave of you, Rosso. Most men like you would be compensating, but you’re living your truth, wearing it on your sleeve - or your hip, to be pedantic. So _inspiring.”_

And oh, Rosso is red in the face, now, those rusty old brain-cogs ticking away just to follow him. It’s so very, very satisfying. “Do you _ever_ shut up?!” he hisses, trying so hard to wrest back control, to see the fear he expects from him. When he doesn’t get it, he opts for a more direct route.

_CRACK._

The strike sends Edward’s head lurching sharply to the right, lolling down with the force of it, and he gasps for a breath knocked out of his body. At least it’s not a bullet, he supposes. That would be rather more difficult to fix. He is, at least, silent, and Rosso seems to take that as a victory; he grins down at him, all yellow teeth and sewer-breath, even as blue eyes glance around and behind and away.

“Now, that’s better. You’re all bark an’ no bite, aren’t you, Nygma? And when you can’t bark…”

In the distance, something falls to the floor with a thud. Then another. And another. A shape moves slowly through the darkness, steadily approaching, until a long shadow looms over them both.

Edward spits a mouthful of blood onto Rosso’s white shirt.

_“I find a bigger dog.”_

* * *

“Well. You look like shit.”

Edward scoffs. “Hello to you, too, darling. Very nice to see you, too. How’s the weather been today? What’s for dinner?”

“Smartass.” Jonathan mumbles, pulling off his mask and staring him down with his one lone eye. He’s studying him - each bruise, each bloodstain, each break - with a scientist’s gaze, analytical; but then he crouches down to eye-level, and it softens. With nobody around left alive, he’s free to brush the blood from Eddie’s chin with his thumb, a tenderness reserved for him alone. “You just had t’keep poking the bear, didn’t you?”

“Well, my knight in bloodied burlap, I was confident you would rescue me.”

That earns him a soft chuckle, which pulls Edward’s red-stained lips into a grin. There’s a pause as Jonathan rounds the chair, and he takes great care to release him from the cuffs, helping him up to stand on half-numb legs. He stays close until his lover is steady on his feet - an unspoken protectiveness - and stands back to give Edward his space.

He watches in amused silence as Edward stretches, lines up the shot, and punts Rosso’s newly-severed head several yards into the darkness.

_Nygma, 1, Rosso, nil._

“What if I hadn’t come t’save you?”

“Hm?”

Turning back to him, Edward can only raise a brow, holding his fractured wrist carefully to his chest. “Well, you’re here, aren’t you? Rescuing the _damsel in distress?_ Unless you’re a _very_ handsome hallucination…”

Jon’s lazy, knowing smile is the only victory Edward needs.

_“Flatterer.”_

* * *


	3. kisses (interrobang)

It's hesitant, the first time. It’s not something he's allowed or even considered for _years._

Kisses are the things with alcohol on the breath and glazed-over eyes and yellowing teeth, a touch more sour than the grapes that forged it, where she slurs your name like it doesn't matter anymore.

Kisses are the things at family gatherings, where your father leans down in his sweat-stenched clothes and says _you'd better not make me look bad_ and presses one to your head when someone comes calling.

Kisses are the things that happen high overhead, keeping up appearances, away from torn-up living rooms where voices are raised to screaming, blaming one another for your own existence.

Kisses are... _terrifying_. Wrong. Loaded with poison, like Ivy's emerald lips, to turn sane men mad and mad men into monsters.

But it feels _right_. Right with her, _safe_ with her. The warm knit of her autumn-time dress against his thigh. Her thick tights sliding a little against the suit-fabric at his shin, legs tucked close to his. Coffee from the little shop downtown, carried through the chill, the scent of sugar and gingerbread dancing in the steam rising off her cup. The perfume he got her as a gift, comfortably familiar, and her hair flowing down his back in long half-curls, still faintly of flowers; the weight of her head resting on his shoulder. Her arm, curled loose around his. The peace. The touch she _earned_ and yet still asks for, each tiny fraction of his space, never wishing just to _take_ from him. The care she has for him. The contentment coming from her like in waves, happy, _warm,_ like she needs nothing more in all the world than this.

He turns his head, just a little bit, to look at her. He watches the way it breaks her from her thoughts, the way she looks at him in turn, the way she smiles enough for her eyes to close like the affections of a cat. A slow blink that means safety.

He leans in before those eyes open again. Fleeting nerves of steel decay to iron, to tin, to silvery melted mercury, dripping to lay heavy in his gut. Worries weigh toxic, with a heartbeat thundering in his chest, tense and terrified to ruin it all. But she doesn't fight, not at all. She doesn't push him away. He feels that tiny gasp against his lips, and then the warmth, the flutter of lashes, the hand that grips so sweetly at his coat, and then the rush of autumn cold as they pull back, fleeting, shy. The rush of realisation, not regret. The magnitude of it all.

Her cheeks burn sweet with far more than cold, and he's sure his do, too.

He murmurs something charming like _nine years were worth the wait,_ like so many rehearsals in the bathroom mirror, but it falls in knots into something like _worth it;_ she whispers her agreement just the same against his lips, giggling faintly, as breathless and hopeless as he is. Here, right here, is the peak of the world, the centre of the universe, as the rest melts away with his heart. He watches her glance away, blush ever redder, smile demure and bashful underneath his gaze, and yet look up so sweetly when he lifts her chin.

_Can we...? Again?_

Kisses are the things on chilly autumn days, when the world seems veiled in silver frost; they're the things given near the gently lapping ocean, over coffee-shop cups and entwined fingers, as sea-birds soar in spirals overhead. Kisses are the things given by soft, cold-cracked lips, given to, given by, to fulfill a long-held yearning, antidotal.

Kisses are the things where she looks up at you with _love,_ and you know without a doubt she is your _Answer._

He's started to consider them.

* * *


	4. fragile (interrorbang)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of violence, and still reeling from its brutality, Edward and Maria watch over Jon at his most fragile.

* * *

“How is he?”

The room is warm as I come in - _Georgia warm,_ Jon would call it, that heat wavering just on the edge of comfortable, just before things get horribly sticky. Bed warm, comfort warm, embrace-warm. The warmth too much for covers but not enough for the AC. The warmth Jon seeks out when he sleeps, when he describes the New Jersey air as _“God-damn freezing”_ , curling up close against us both.

Maria must have turned it up for him.

“He’s… alright.” she whispers back to me, finally looking up, but doesn’t sound so sure of her words; her hand lingers on Jon’s, resting in her lap, the only contact Jon can spare right now. “He’ll be alright.”

I’m not sure whether she’s saying that for her sake or mine. It’s a few short steps to the bed we share together, and I round the edge to settle beside her; I can’t help but glance over Jon as he rests. He’s breathing slower, now, medicated, but each rise of his chest hitches with effort, shuddering until his lungs agree to fill. The outward breath draws the softest wheezing noise through a broken nose.

The thought of who did this makes me feel sick.

He’s laying there, bruised, broken, dosed up on painkillers and pills just for sleep, his long hair tangled and dirtied with dust. His shirt and pants are long since discarded, ready to be washed of the blood. His head lolls limp to one side. Near-bare on the bed, our Morpheus lays vulnerable but _safe,_ safe with _us,_ and that’s the main thing - he’s not back there anymore, with _him_ anymore.

The bruises are so dark, it’s like he’s been splashed with ink.

“This is… tame, compared to usual. Someone must have stopped him halfway through.” I murmur, solemnly, but the words feel heavy on my tongue - heavier still when my Answer’s eyes soften with heartbreak. “I imagine the… mental strain will be worse than the physical. You saw him the last time this happened outside Arkham. It…”

“…it brings out Scarecrow. Yeah.” she concludes, gaze falling, returning to Jon by her side on the bed; she’s been perched there for hours, tending to him, going over every bruise and cleaning every bloodstain. She strokes Jon’s hair back from his face with the softest touch, and he hardly even stirs. She’s so endlessly gentle with him, with us. “We’ll - we’ll keep track of his meds, look after him. Make sure he’s okay - Scarecrow won’t need to come out. He’ll be safe.”

My answer falls from my lips without even thinking. “He will.” That instinctive certainty - it always surprises me, but it’s also such a _comfort,_ that sense that things will be alright. Not perfect, not by any stretch - but alright. A storm that can be weathered. A knowledge that our odd little family is strong enough. “Can I get you anything?” I whisper back to her, reaching out to pet her hair, and I watch her lean into the touch and sigh.

“I’d love some tea.” she admits, lips tugging into a tiny, weary smile, and I feel myself return one - I can’t help but lean in to kiss her, then, capturing that smile as if to keep it safe. God knows we need it right now. “…and could you get some water, too? For Jon?”

“Of course, darling.” She thinks so much of us, so much of the little things, and it’s the least I can do to help her. I watch Jon stir at the sound of his name, gripping weakly at her skirt, but Maria gently soothes him back to sleep; by the time I return from the kitchen, he’s succumbed back to his slumber, easy as breathing. Easier. Easier than breathing.

“He’ll be alright,” I whisper, as Maria curls up beside me on the chair, taking sips of her tea and never taking her eyes off Jon. It’s comfort, if nothing else. As much for her sake as mine. 

“He will.”

* * *


End file.
